Best Skulking Poems
Poetry is
A mish-mash of scattered words assembled into a cohesive formation allowed to march across the page to the beat of a different drummer and danced to by an errant passerby.
A smooth stirring of a simmering broth brought to a culinary conclusion leaving the mouth of the reader hanging agape.
A dark coated mystery skulking on the edges of each word stalking the unsuspecting reader
An hilarious visit to the loo
A venom-soaked rant raging about the ragged remorse of regret
A whispered toe tapping bed time story
A gathering of words in valiant attempt to assemble a cohesive thought capable of expressing the innermost feelings of a bewildered poet
The undefinable gift we call
POETRY
Skulking between the thinning clumps
Of tattered sedge
A balding coot despondently calls,
Scratching Blackbirds scutter deeply
Into a Hawthorn hedge;
Whilst, creeping stealthily,
Gathering darkness onwardly crawls.
The blackened Moorhen washes the clinging
Soot from his feathered form,
Rising above the mirrored pond in awkward
flight.
Gathering clouds mumble softly of an
Impending storm,
When, silently menacing, inwards marches
The approaching night.
Listening intently, between murmurs upon
A breeze,
I check my step and briefly pause -
To catch a low sigh whispered from among
The sullen trees...
A last desperate plead of their lost cause.
For now billowing cumulonimbus sags
And begs to stall,
As, slowly homeward bound, I gather
About me to hastily make;
Where, circling high in rushing element,
The ragged Buzzard begins to fall...
Upon Heavens gathered Furies -
That so conspire to thunderously break!
Skulking in the shadows,
dementia devastates;
as sanity slowly
begins slipping away.
When your memory fails:
Life loses all meaning
and you become depressed;
bewildered, and confused.
Your heart morphs into a
desolate derelict,
a floundering vessel
that love's anchor; can't save.
Hope has been depleted
and trust does not exist:
not even time stays true,
in this fugue state of mind.
And while reality
seems stranger than a dream:
Alzheimer's tethers your
soul to oblivion.
What pushes my pen in this whimsical notch of the world?
Something whispers to me like an elder dream....
and the trees hang arbored 'oer a little stream of sea,
the feathered folk flit and flute,
and sip the may-season rill;
Where sun has finally come dipping like a diamond.....
I am measured to this mighty moment found;
and there is holly even in the most forgotten shade,
though royal (even) ----- with garland diadems made
It would seem the angels have foretold this:
to not forget the most beauteous of days;
with proud hours honeyed,
the long-loving minute endures in thy heart,
and remembers the kiss of legends
despite realms of sadness and dark,
the withered wind which blows old upon the sad hills....
too ancient for wise men; for in youth how pink the heart
and varied, new struggles are many -----
yet plain with simple solutions
Mercy hath not a mind for memory....
swift its song, its house clean of enemies lurking,
no bogey-man skulking the midnite hour,
no roving-a-wraith scratching the old attic boards;
Forgiveness sleeps in the quiet wood,
and wakes with whispers of faith,
with the ease of nestled lambs and recollected days;
What poor tragedy to fret with dark remembrance,
to furl hades in the denizens of thy heart ----
black-tongued as the devil in his den!
What fool would prefer a scowl to a smile?
enemies come and go.....
friends come and remain,
when the house is quiet with memories....
of youth and adventure in the old daydream glass;
more precious the ancient hours
and parched the pages of first chapters,
first beginnings, first faces in the ripples of time's pond;
They took my blood and ethnic group, they did.
My soul was skulking, knowing of the strains
If I have no visa, they’ll get mad
Reading my thick newspaper was sad
Seeing they’re deporting love again
They took my blood ,my heart and I feel bad
Water has no salt whereas blood has
And losing it will cause a lot of pain
If we have no visas, oh dear God.
The water circulates; we’re effing dead
So when we’re shot there’s no red blood to stain
They looked for human souls and then they bragged
The Jews, the gays the helpless .felt cold dread
And who resists now Fascism rides again?
We scream when we’re asleep,oh helpless God.
We invented torture , prison, shame
Were God here he’d hear the frightened groans
They took my ethnic group and stole my blood
Now they call me ” ”, ain’t life sad?
Where the antelope used to play is now shopping malls and plats.
Man in his insatiable greed has encroached upon its ancient habitats.
Not so very long ago on the plains just a few miles out of town,
Were herds of these graceful creatures that now have dwindled down.
Also, pushed from the verdant plains are the mighty buffalo,
That grazed upon the lush, green grasses not so very long ago.
Upon these sacred grazing grounds are now concrete parking lots,
And densely cluttered cookie-cutter houses on quarter-acre plots.
Where have all the magnificent wild turkeys gone,
That used to preen and strut about at the break of dawn?
Even the lowly prairie dogs, their burrows they've had to flee,
To accommodate covetous developers who've gone on a building spree.
Of the wily fox and skulking coyote, there are fewer to be seen.
They were forced from their hunting grounds and have fled the scene.
Desperate flocks of grouse and pheasant have also taken flight,
To raise their young elsewhere, escaping mans' spreading blight.
Deer and elk that once peered shyly from almost every copse;
Their environs now occupied and overrun with tacky shops.
'Twould be novel if man would recall that these creatures were here first,
And consider them when pursuing their unquenchable expansion thirst!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The tiger traces, through it's jungle home,
His prey he chases, just then, the crackle of bone.
Sleekly stalking, through shadow of tree,
His prey just skulking, oblivious, carefree.
Nostrils twitching, green eyes shining,
Pupils dilating and paw's barbs refining.
Lips pulled back, canines showing,
It's the Tiger's tact, saliva flowing.
Such a wonderful creature, watched in awe,
Marvelous features, a strong, crushing jaw.
Watching his hunting in divinest anguish and rapturous pain,
In this death we should not languish, the creature that was slain.
I suppose that's just nature, the way of the world,
Just stay form the Tiger's abature, lest his claws would be unfurled.
Skulking - lurks an unseen shadow
chilling both the heart and marrow
destiny - your dust of sorrow
Death, where are you
Nurturing an endless grudge
at life’s end the gentle nudge
of darkness’ - god forsaken judge
Death, where are you
Breathless creature littered path
a trail of tears your aftermath
cold hallowed wail of livings wrath
Death, where are you
My pain beseeches you dear death
free these emotions, suppress my breath
beneath your cloak let me forget
Death, where are you
©4/29/2018
submitted to – Rhyme and Refrain – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Broken Wings
No rosebud should ever experience a seed of fear growing in them.
Quote by poet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seed of Fear
A cryptic shadow slithers
Across a moonlit floor
Past tea parties, glass slippers
And naïve unicorns
Wearing feather boas
To reawaken a seed of fear
Deeply planted
By ashes in driving downbeats
Of thick moonbeams
That penetrates artless innocence
In a requiem for mercy.
Paralyzed in a coma of terror
A rosebud hears
The strident flute song mount
To sing an epitaph for stolen magic
As it bursts from its calyx
On rotting moonbeams
Sowing repeated ebony nightmares
By the full moon
That whirl and spin
In shades upon the ceiling
And like a thorn
The pulsing root sinks embryonic genes
Deep into shivering petals.
In satisfaction the shade withdraws
With skulking footsteps,
Oblivious to the rosebud’s tears,
Leaving pure petals wilted
In muffled agony
The callow flower’s story
Told in silhouettes
Of shadows on a moonlit wall
Each moonlit night
A ravished garden
Watered by mangled tears
A eulogy grows for ever after
In an epitaph for innocence
As The Rising Sun, The Dawn Came In Softly & Slowly;
&
So Did My Suffering.
Maybe Unexplained Or Unexpected Feelings;
Which Have Been Ignored;
A Sudden Melancholy Skulking In The Silence;
Awaiting The Arrival Of This Day.
The Days Have Regrettably Passed Since We Parted Ways;
About 4 Years Ago, & I Now Wonder If There Was Anything I Could Have Done;
I May Not Have Needed To Spend As Much Time In The Closet;
I Probably Need To Have Paid Closer Attention To How You Felt About Being Anonymous;
Or;
To Anything Else That Would Have Kept You By My Side;
I Am Sorely Missing You Right Now.
My Thoughts Are Hitting Barriers, & My Tears Are Falling Like Waterfalls;
All With Photographs Of You;
Including Your Wild Hairstyles;
Wild Kissing Technique;
All-Gleaming Beard;
Lovely Eyes;
Beautiful Voice;
Undetectable Abs;
&
Silly Smiles.
The Monotonous Music You Listened To In Your Place;
I Can Still Hear Them Playing In My Head From When I Visited;
I Still Occasionally Hear Them In My Brain;
Which Is Shocking, But I Genuinely Miss You & Those Awful Songs.
It is the laziest of all creatures,
It could eat and eat filet all the day long.
Investigative eyes is a feature,
And it will sing to you its forlorn song.
It will avoid you like the plague by day,
Skulking, running, bounding, from room to room.
By night it searches through the halls for its prey,
The hunted will meet its impending doom.
The whisper of whiskers against the door,
Tip-toe, pitter-patter, sneakily creeps.
All at once bounding across the floor,
Whoosh goes the paw across the mouse hole deep.
“Drat!” says the cat, missed the mark once again,
Once more the mouse hunt will have to begin.
From the year of Eighteen ninety,
survives a sad birthday tale.
As told by Private John Burnett,
eighty years old when it was told.
Of needless deaths of Cherokee,
inflicted by relocation.
In Eighteen hundred thirty eight,
President Jackson did decree,
all the Cherokee must move west,
and give up their lands to white men.
Even though he, Junaluska,
had saved Jackson’s life in battle.
On chill morning of October,
six hundred forty five wagons,
took the twelve thousand Indians.
Chief John Ross led all in prayer.
They were literate, Christians all,
with written language, newspaper,
and Constitution like our form.
Morning, November seventeen,
terrible storm of sleet and snow.
No fire to warm the ground below.
Dying of pneumonia from the cold,
a trail of death, four thousand souls.
Heart wrenching grief for those alive.
Eighteen ninety, still near the deed.
Too near for young people to know,
the enormity of the crime.
“Murder is murder however,
or whomever perpetrated.
By the villain skulking at night,
or to martial music by day.”
“Murder is murder and who answers.
Who must explain the streams of blood,
flowing through Indian country.
Who will mourn the four thousand graves,
which silently are trail markers.
I wish I could forget it all.
Thus ends my birthday story here.”
Based on a true record of John Burnett’s story of his life with
the Cherokee and his accompaniment on “The Trail of Tears”.
© May 14 2010 For Deborah’s” theme of western movement” contest
I see you creeping in the night
Ephemeral spirit that haunts my darkness
And lurks within my shadow
A silent whisper in my ear
Cast your lot with me,
And see the riches I will adorn thee with
I see you skulking in the morning light
Ephemeral spirit that haunts my day
It’s harder to see you in the blackness of my shadow
But I can hear your distant whisper
Join my legions,
And enjoy the camaraderie of kindred spirits
I tell you, I am but a solitary man
Capable of withstanding the allure
My rewards will come through enlightenment
And not from a whisper
I sit at my bench again,
this whole scene is getting old.
Same old sinners skulking in,
same defense a trillion-fold.
Next the room fills up with steam,
then flames shoot up through the grate.
I'm so bored I want to scream.
Now the part I really hate...
Blah, blah, blah, "I beg you, sir,"
"Tell Him there's been a mistake..."
Ugh - stop drooling on my fur!
YOU'LL be burning at the stake.
I've been doing this so long,
I forgot when it began.
Sentencing the endless throng
of the very worst of man.
NEXT...!
Come on, don't hold the line,
I've got legions more to see.
Quicksand. Sharks. Nice white strychnine.
Punishment is up to me.
Used to be I really dug
civic aspects of this job,
now I just want to unplug
from this whole unholy mob.
What if men just acted right?
What if more went UP, than down?
Maybe I'd take off a night,
or perhaps go out of town...
Wait - did I just HAVE that thought??
Oh my goodness, I'm not well...
Feel my head - am I still hot?
Guess there ARE cold days in hell!
==================
07/29/2015
I sit at my bench again,
this whole scene is getting old.
Same old sinners skulking in,
same defense a trillion-fold.
Now the room fills up with steam.
Next, flames shoot up through the grate.
I'm so bored I want to scream!
Here's the part I really hate...
Blah, blah, blah, "I beg you, sir,
this is all one big mistake...!"
Ugh! Stop clutching at my fur!
YOU'LL be burning at the stake.
I've been doing this so long,
I forgot when it began.
Sentencing the endless throng
of the very worst of man.
NEXT...! Let's go - don't hold the line,
I've got legions more to see.
Quicksand... Sharks... Irate canine...
Punishment is up to me.
Used to be I really dug
civic aspects of this job,
now I just want to unplug
from this whole unholy mob.
What if men just acted right?
What if more went UP, than down?
Maybe I'd take off a night...
or perhaps go out of town...
WAIT. Did I just have that thought??
Oh my badness, I'm not well...
Feel my head - am I still hot?!
...Guess there ARE cold days in hell!